Ike intended to correct the anachronism perched on Ruth’s mantle, a surprise he would spring that night. “Well, good afternoon, Sheriff. Is this a social call or did my husband, the lawyer, rat me out for running a numbers racket in my back room?” “I need a clock.” “What sort of clock?” “Something suitable for display in a neo-Georgian office.” “I have some very nice shelf clocks, two cabinet clocks—one grandfather and one grandmother, a—” “Show me a shelf clock. It has to sit on a mantelpiece.” Betsy led him through a circuitous path around tables, wardrobes, and cabinets filled with chinaware and miscellaneous bric-a-brac, to a small space where several clocks of various sizes and shapes competed for space on a drop-leaf walnut dining table. She pointed to a clock in the middle. “That one is a Chauncey Jerome, I think. At least that’s what it says on the inside of the case, but I can’t be sure. The works might have been swapped out. These are brass and the early Jeromes had wooden movements.”
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